


Specks of Dusk

by TSerpillum



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Worldbuilding, implied mikenana
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 05:09:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16010939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TSerpillum/pseuds/TSerpillum
Summary: Old Mr. Sigurdsson was used to seeing all kinds of folks in his antique shop, Military policemen and Garrison soldiers being no exception. Yet one evening a young Survey Corps soldier quietly walked into his shop, losing herself and her sense of time.“Are you looking for something specific?” he tried again, studying the boyish stature and the blonde hair.Such a pity 'twas that short.For a moment she ceased all movement, starred in front of her without truly seeing anything, then let the tense shoulders fall.“Not exactly. I am looking for something...” in loss of the right words her gaze wandered somewhere over his bald head, “something... that speaks to me.”A soldier and a day dreamer all at once? Well, that’s a rare type, he figured.Loneliness and longing, the loss that happened and the one that's anticipated.In it all humans are merely specks of dust.





	Specks of Dusk

It’s the lonesome hour in the old antique shop when the little specks of dust were no longer illuminated in their dance.

The life once lived and long gone still lingered on the old decoration, furniture, pottery and between the books whose pages were marked, written in or dedicated to someone as a gift; the names, date and a personal message still greeting one as they opened it.

In the first few years as the shop owner, Mr. Sigurdsson always wondered about those people, where were they now and why did they part with their personal belongings. Much can happen as well as nothing; behind many of those items was nothing like a memorable story. It was mostly boredom and uselessness, he learnt to say to himself, and somewhere along the way, he started believing it.

The rag his wife used to wipe the counter with awaited for him to put it to usage, to announce the closing time, although by now his back does it more often, urging him to shorten the working hours. Standing through the whole shift wasn’t half as easy as it was back in the days and his patience thinned out too. Customers rarely did stay long in the shop, and this late in the evening everyone hurried home for supper, to meet their family and rest. Mr. Sigurdsson wanted to do so as well; go upstairs, eat the leftover bread from this morning and sit by the window with his cat, gazing out to the empty street.

However, in the far corner of his shop where the bookshelves stood, the costumer still made no signs of leaving soon.

Watching them carefully over his glasses, Mr. Sigurdsson tidied up the counter, opened the register book and swiftly wrote down the sold items: the two clay flower vases, a landscape painting of an unknown artist that was rumoured to have come on the surface from the black market, the tea set of fine porcelain, and was that all? The coins he counted made more sound than necessary, all in order to break the concentration of the soldier who once again put a book back with a disappointed sigh. They were at the lowest shelf, the tall form hunched over the next book in the row they picked up to inspect.

For the first time since they entered he spoke.

“The military books are on the top shelf behind you.”

Caught off guard, they looked over to him as if they weren’t sure if the suggestion was aimed at them, blinking a few times before answering.

“I know. Thank you.” they politely returned and proceeded to flip the pages of the hardcover.

At first Mr. Sigurdsson wasn’t sure of their gender. Maybe he’ll need to have his glasses adjusted again, because it happened that he unintentionally stepped on his cat’s tail a few times by now. Somehow it always got in the way and under his heavy feet. But the voice was definitely female, as it reminded him of clear hill creeks, similar to those of the district of Yarckell.

Not that he ever visited the district. He simply read about it and heard a few costumers speak of it.

“Are you looking for something specific?” he tried again, studying the boyish stature and the blonde hair.

Such a pity 'twas that short.

For a moment she ceased all movement, starred in front of her without truly seeing anything, then let the tense shoulders fall.

“Not exactly. I am looking for something...” in loss of the right words her gaze wandered somewhere over his bald head, “something... that speaks to me.”

A soldier and a day dreamer all at once? Well, that’s a rare type, he figured.

The nervous half smile tugged at the old man’s heart and understanding, and he squinted to the bookshelf she was examining, trying to remember what genre it was. Jonna, his youngest daughter, took this task on her when she had the time. She was as orderly as her mother, arranging the books by genre, size and color, always commenting on which to keep in the shop and which to burn for its lacking moral, so that Mr. Sigurdsson lost his overview. Yet he was sure there were no religious or spiritual books there, as messing with the law isn’t something he could handle. Previously Wilma, and now Jonna, are nothing compared to the military policemen asking endless questions about the origin of the items, always making sure to trick him into saying something dangerous. A few items from the black market here and there were fine as long as they had reached the surface long before they found their place in his shop, but that’s as far as he would go. Pushing the image of the old senile idiot from the shop the military policemen got of him won’t do any good.

But this one isn’t one of those, he figured that long ago. Locked in an own world, this soldier came in private business. And what other books could a person with the Wings of Freedom on their back look for?

In the 27 years he ran the shop, Mr. Sigurdsson saw many faces and learnt to read people easily. All he needed to do was observe them, their reactions to the antiquities and what they are interested in. He could tell a lot based on those little things, knowing very well what words to offer on the counter.

In case of soldiers, from the moment they stepped through the door, he knew if there would be any problems. Still Survey Corps soldiers aren’t everyone. Those are the rare type of people he will never be able to understand, and having one of them so silent in his shop intrigued him deeply.

“Is that so?” he murmured to himself, letting the chill of stillness settle in.

Poor girl could be dead by the next expedition, a mere waste of money and human lives, and as he wasn’t such a cold hearted man, he decided not to interrupt her anymore. If she is going to die so soon, then at least the old hag from the antique shop didn’t throw her out, he granted her the search for something that spoke to her.

Whatever that may be.

Business and compassion never go together, Wilma always warned him, emphasizing his financial situation as proof.

Whenever he counted the coins he earned for the day, he thought of her.

It was nice to have had someone to bicker with.

His gaze lingered on the signature embroidery his wife marked every of their bedsheets, handkerchiefs and even dishcloths, their initials in light blue thread, a color of peace and hope, as she liked to point out. Although old and battered, he clung to them, refusing to part.

The shuffling accompanied by one more absentminded sigh brought him back to the present. Putting the last book back on the shelf, the soldier rose from her squatting position with grace, moving towards the counter on light feet, a bittersweet smile adorning the porcelain face.

“Although here are lots of books, I can’t seem to find something for me.”

The apology was evident in the clarity of her eyes.

“Better luck next time, I’d say.” she added jokingly, her stance open, smile soft as silk.

The urge to send her insultingly back to where she came from weakened in front of it.

The silence stretched out as Mr. Sigurdsson contemplated whether he’ll engage in a conversation further or wait until she realized how much time she spent in the shop. However, the unusual situation called for unusual deeds.

“The next delivery is expected in two weeks. Maybe there will be something you’ll like.”

The counter was his shield in front of his costumers, allowing him to study them from a safe distance without ever being examined by the usual folk. It reached right to his waist, he was a small man anyway, and the years weighed heavy on his spine. He slumped slightly forward using the stability his counter offered by crossing his forearms on it.

“In case you’re alive by then.”

The silken smile didn’t waver. If he could trust his glasses, Mr. Sigurdsson would actually believe to see it light up in amusement, a thought strengthened by her attention on the simplistic carving hung on the wall behind him. It was one of the most beloved possessions Wilma had.

“I sincerely hope so, but one should always count on unexpected surprises.”

This soldier was even more annoying than the others, he figured, with her taking lightly the topic of death.

“Like idiots leaving the safety of the walls to play heroes?”

The thin eyebrow quirked under the blonde bangs.

“Can we truly see this as a surprise?”

Without losing the carving with the symbol of the Wall Cult out of her sight, she challenged the old man, yet she did it in a friendly manner.

“Your idiotism is surprising to me.” he grumbled, “The Survey Corps are a pack of lunatics led by a demon who plays 'em like puppets. That’s all you’re worth. And no, that thing isn’t for sale.” he gestured towards it, the wrinkled hand almost shaking.

The soldier remained unresponsive to his harsh outburst, taking the insult calmly and without the wish to reply. She looked at him like the porcelain doll he sold two months ago, void of any reaction. Beautiful and perfect.

_So unnerving._

“I’m not interested in buying that.” was all she said, choosing to ignore the insults.

“ _That_? I’m sorry, miss soldier, but that’s my wife’s treasure, so it’s not just a _that_. And report me to your superior officer for all I care. High time they got somethin' to do.” he concluded his speech, side eyeing her.

There were things you could see about people without truly using your eyes. Some call it intuition, while others simplified it into feeling. No matter the label, Mr. Sigurdsson felt the blonde woman being robbed off her soldier stance, a blow he dealt while aiming for something entirely else.

Caught off guard himself, he widened his grey eyes at the lack of aggression, arrogance and threats, watching her crossing her arms protectively over her chest in complete silence. Exhaling deeply, she struggled to regain her composure and straightened her back in grace a noble could be envious of.

“My superior officer has more important tasks to attend to. This little chat isn’t worth his time.”

“A chat is it then.” he nodded, examining the situation further, “For others of your comrades, it would be belittling speech, especially for the superiors. Seems like you had luck with yours.”

Nodding reluctantly, she paused before answering.

“One could say so, yes.”

Each word was calculated and checked on before it passed the pink lips, Mr. Sigurdsson could tell by the lowering of her tone, so uncertain and uncomfortable, and the lively tinted cheeks.

So, some Survey Corps soldiers are also plain humans.

The dangerous thing, the old shop owner knew, was when you begin seeing people as they are, as the messes their lives are made of. Same sorrows and same joys, only differing in their faces and expressions.

An ages old sigh left the battered lungs.

“I also had luck with my wife.”

With her uniform jacket still on her shoulders, she seemed to have forgotten about it entirely, and her oblivion towards it made him oblivious too so the dam broke.

“Faithful, a good housewife, gave me lots of kids... good Wilma made us a home." He hummed as if to give strength to his words, averting his gaze towards the carving representing the three Wall Goddesses and a small symbol of the Holy Walls beneath it. "Too bad she’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, it was obvious she didn't know what to say because she's one of those who exactly knew there were no words to alleviate the pain and loss. However, the sincerity made the two words she spoke more bearable. It wasn't a shallow phrase.

Their eyes met, a glance of understanding was exchanged, a truthful one, and he allowed himself to say: “I think I’ll never get used to it.”

Above the counter, the elegant clock kept ticking eagerly, measuring the time spent reminiscing and reflecting; moments spent in another world only existent in each person’s head. Upon return, there was not much left. A few leftover items, embroidered textiles, and the persistent absence of the one you couldn’t imagine your life without. A feeling those soldiers know all too well, he concluded by the deep thoughtfulness in the downturned eyes and the tension in the delicate jaw.

She had people in mind, maybe several of them, she already lost, and some she dreads losing.

What is left after them? What will be left after her?

A spare uniform, a few letters from home in case she had one, and maybe a book if she finds one that speaks to her.

Toss it away, and her existence will be erased as well.

Even so old as he was, not a day passed in which he didn’t think of Wilma, the woman who cooked, cleaned and lived a normal life dedicated to the three Goddesses.

Every soldier who went outside the walls to change the world will be much sooner forgotten.

Once swallowed alive or burnt to ashes, entirely erased.

Poor, poor girl.

The disgust that formed in his gut could be only taken out on the Commander and oh how he wished to spit on him. Damned demon.

“Time isn’t a healer, but rather a helper.” the soldier recollected the words she heard after her third expedition when she lost a close friend, catching the old man's attention easily, “It will either help you learn to live with the pain, or help the pain consume you.” With her gaze turned to her boots, she stopped, reviving the image and sound in her head, slightly shifting from one leg to the other.

With a raised eyebrow, the old man concluded the thought: “It’s up to us to choose, huh?” studying her in concealed curiosity.

“I’m still not sure about that, but...”

“But your superior told you so?”, Mr. Sigurdsson deepened his wrinkles with a smile as a flash of surprise crossed her face.

“Seems like a wise man.”

With heat in her cheeks she tried to bite back a small smile from forming, consciously hiding her eyes from the old man in order not to be revealed.

“Who would have thought that such men are in that organisation.” he mulled over the thought, nodding to himself a few times before shifting back his focus to the soldier. “It’s a good influence for a change. Don’t miss out on it.”

Despite it’s beauty, the shy smile was one of the saddest he has ever seen, a sadness deeply blended with insatiable longing.

The soldier was gone, there was only this young girl here, roughly around Jonna’s age, confused into a silence she knew she wasn’t allowed to break, but considered doing so in here, surrounded by those old items, homeless just as the two of them were.

“I wasn’t the best husband, maybe she’d been more happy with a man who shared her views, but now I miss her lessons dearly. Wilma wasn’t the smartest, yet still a lot smarter than this old hag.” he pointed towards himself, half smiling through it, just to hide the emptiness he felt, increased even more by the silence of the streets.

The grimace on his face as he straightened his back alarmed the young woman.

“By now I should have drank my tea.” he tried to massage a spot on his lower back which hurt the most, “I still have a few spare cups. Care to drink one with this old fool”? he suggested as a reconciliation, that’s how he wanted to put it, at least, halfway smiling and awkwardly joking as he usually does it with his cat.

The blue eyes lit up, she let her arms fall in an odd sort of relief and a moment later, she smilingly opened her mouth to voice her response. Yet in the same moment the front door flew open and a young woman came dashing through it, breaking the comfort of the place.

“Oh, papa! I’m sorry I’m this late!”, she breathlessly explained as she walked past the soldier, her presence in the shop being almost unnoticed, hurrying to walk around the counter and greet the old shop owner, “Marko worked longer tonight and with my condition, I couldn’t come alone carrying this.” She gestured to the man standing in the door, carrying a pot in his hands, the tiredness carved in the wrinkles around his eyes.

There was this specific air of being worn out around him, so usual for all factory workers, the soldier recalled her superior saying once, in surprise of how accurate the description was.

“It’s alright, dear, don’t worry.” Mr. Sigurdsson returned halfheartedly, unable to hide the bitterness he felt towards Marko for taking his youngest child away, no matter his awareness of how childish it was.

Interrupted by the unexpected intrusion, the soldier backed off, tried not to stand in the way as she felt a cold stream of unfriendliness from the man standing in the door.

Mr. Sigurdsson’s son in law walked past her towards the stairs not acknowledging her presence at all, much to the old man’s relief. Luckily he was too tired to show his resentment towards her, one of those blasphemous creatures no better than titans as they both laugh at the sanctity of the walls.

“Are you hungry, papa? I made a nice soup for all of us to eat, so let’s go upstairs before it gets cold.”

Tho old man looked apologetically over Jonna’s shoulder to the soldier, who smiled awkwardly while brushing her bangs behind her left ear.

Only then did Jonna follow her father’s gaze and turned around to face her.

As uncomfortable as it was, Mr. Sigurdsson had to take back his invitation because of the unexpected company, otherwise it would get even more uncomfortable.

“And we’re closed for quite some time now, I’m sorry.” the pregnant woman put on a cold smile nodding impatiently, signalling the soldier to leave already. “Come back some other time during the opening hours with some other business than to harass old people.”

Widening her eyes in surprise, the soldier looked once again at the round belly shielded by the counter, pressed her lips in a line for a split second, and after a breath, responded neutrally: “Oh, my bad.”

The perfect half smile was back into place, but the shallow undertone gained visibility in the defensive stance and swiftness to turn to the door and finally leave, shooting one last glance to the old man, one of pity and understanding.

“Good night.” she mumbled before she stepped on the pavement outside, her worn boots making barely any sound as she did so. With her back on them, she raised her collar in the crisp autumn air and crossed the street in long strides without looking back.

Mr. Sigurdsson followed her with his worn eyes, a mixture of embarrassment and compassion rushed through him.

They might never meet again, and if he could trust his intuition, they won't.

“I’m used to the Military police and the Garrison soldiers trying to gain some extra coins with hunting for items from the black market, but now those lunatics too?” Jonna narrowed her eyes in disapproval. “May Sina, Rose and Maria protect us.”

“Jonna” her father sought her attention to explain the situation, but was cut off immediately.

“Papa, pray to the Goddesses for protection from that scum.”, she pleaded with her hands over his, weakening him easily.

Grumbling was his only response as he tried hard not to argue. He knew he couldn’t, she knew as well, so she walked around the counter to lock the door and reverse the sign to announce the shop closed.

With the help of his daughter, Mr. Sigurdsson climbed the stairs to his attic, where Marko already sat at the dinning table near the window looking outside on the street with a tight expression. Jonna hurriedly set the table and filled the plates with the soup, chatting on cheerily about the wisdom their Pastor readily shared with them. Not listening, her father followed Marko’s gaze outside, and saw a tall figure outside on the pavement, melting into the shadows but still visible due to the sparsely positioned torches.

“A spy?” Marko mumbled more to himself than to Mr. Sigurdsson, much to the old man’s dismay as Jonna heard him.

“The soldier?”

Enraged, she stomped towards the window, and having spotted her herself, she harshly pulled the curtains over the window, protecting their privacy.

With her hands still on the fabric, she spoke a prayer: “Dear Goddesses Sina, Rose and Maria, protect us from all harm, protect us from those who try to keep us away from your wise ways and strengthen us in our path.”

“Amen.” Marko added and when Jonna returned to her seat, he began eating his meal.

Then Mr. Sigurdsson remembered.

“Say, Jonna,” he talked with a mouthful of this morning’s bread, refusing to taste the one she brought along, “the books on the lowest shelf.”

“Yes, Papa?”

“Which are those?” he tried to sound as casual as possible, earning himself a roll of the grey eyes which resembled his wife’s so much.

“Those I told you several times already not to sell.” she told harshly, waiting for him to remember which they were. Still he gave her a questioning look, too tired to get to it himself. “Romance books, papa.”

Mr. Sigurdsson let his spoon fall into his soup, making Jonna sigh over the little spots it made on the table cloth.

“Papa, they inspire people to sin, so please listen for once. We must protect our youth.” she gestured towards her belly, however her father didn’t pay attention anymore. It was focused elsewhere, far behind the curtains his daughter spoke prayers on.

All made a lot more sense now.

His cat Siegfried lazily climbed on the chair beside him, watching his owner with raised ears.

“So it’s a sin? If it speaks to the soul, it’s a sin, huh...”

Yet all he could do was pick up his spoon again, sigh out a prayer to something he wasn’t even sure existed, in hope they could reach out to some higher being when it was impossible for those closest around them to hear.

Perhaps that’s why Wilma believed in something so vain as the Wall Goddesses. He didn’t listen, so all she could do was pray and hope.

_Oh, Wilma..._

**Author's Note:**

> An idea I got while sitting in McDonald's and eating my McSundae Deluxe Daim and drinking my Cappuccino. Real proof that inspiration is everywhere to be found.  
> Nanaba is a character I still had no courage to write, so I started with a younger Nanaba searching for something that, in her own words, speaks to her.  
> (Might be continued at some point)
> 
> Anyway, all the comments, kudos and views so far made me so happy, so a huge THANK YOU to each and every one of you!  
> Thank you for reading and as always, feedback is more than appreciated.


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